Birthdays Are Awkward
When I was a kid, birthdays were used as bribes to get me to behave myself. "If you're not a good girl, you won't get any birthday this year." It was a threat that hung over my head like a sword on a thread. After one such year of turmoil between Mom and me, I went into the kitchen and spotted a pile of colorful and beribboned boxes on the dining room table. I was the only one awake at the time, but I couldn't bear to even look at them, sitting there as my Mom's surprise for me. I retreated to my room with my bowl of cereal to hide.
Mom, of course, was disappointed that I didn't just rip into the presents. What did she expect? She'd been trying to beat the barbarian out of me all that year. So …….
After I moved from home, I didn't mention my birthday to anyone. It was fine with me if the day passed unnoticed. When I married, my new husband didn't observe the day even though he knew the date. Since he shared his birthday with two other relatives, that day was marked with a big family bash. But he always forgot mine. I was surprised by how much it pissed me off. When I confronted him about it, he said, "Well, I just didn't think it was that important."
I just stood there, mouth agape. Since then, he's made more of an effort to mark the day, but it's been awkward for me to enjoy it without suspicion. In fact, gift-giving occasions are so bound up in obligatory sentament, I want to run away from the scene. Thus, the Birthday Hike poem.
Birthday Hike
Alone.
No friends or family to pester me
with platitudes and cake.
Pack shifting against my back
filled with emergency supplies
I would never need, but it was fun
To buy them all…just in case.
I find the trailhead to a portion of the PCT.
Almost like a sidewalk at this point,
It gradually hitches up its expectations.
More ruts and rubble, twisted trees
Erratics poised upon a slick rock slope.
My toes spread inside my boots for balance.
My legs stretch,
Each step opening to a rhythm
between soil and stone.
My lungs rasp against
The meager air at altitude.
My arms swing free.
I feel good despite a rising storm.
The trail divides.
One leading to an unmarked
Hill of skree, crags, and brush.
I veer to a track I know
Stepping over roots,
Toeing stony stairways
Formed by a million feet.
Manzanita clears to a wide rocky trace
around a mountain tarn, reflecting
clouds roiling in the wind
that has threatened all day.
I shelter under a boulder's lip
Ponderosas whisper then howl.
Pulling my poncho from the pack
A bag of trail mix hits the ground.
Fingers dive in, fishing raisins and peanuts
Plunging them into my mouth.
Sweet salt livens my tongue
Crumbles of nut merge with strings
Of torn fruit, energy slowly returns
As the wind rips at my hood.
Its icy blast fails to find my bones.
Hubris grows in this comfortable place
Inside my poncho's warmth.
In time, I stow the empty gorp bag
Hoist the cumbersome pack
Settling it atop my hips.
How stupid!
I wanted to test all the stuff:
The fire starter
The tiny solar radio
The super-duper emergency
Space Blanket and sleeping bag
On a day hike?
When all I really need
Is a baggie of nuts
A bottle of water
And my poncho.
What was I thinking?
Lewis and Clark delusions of a silly
old woman on my sixtieth birthday.
Climbing up to the main trail again,
another couple suddenly appears.
The man glares at me, seems to say
What the hell are you doing here!
Get your ancient butt off my trail.
I almost agree with him
As I shuffle along the pathway
I'd already tramped. I see things now
From the backward perspective.
Twisted trees like ballerinas
Erratics in venerable repose.
Tiny blooms peek
from cracks to surprise me.
Happy birthday and welcome to our world.
Don't let the bastards grind you down!
I had a very dear friend, Norma, with whom I shared many evenings discussing our joys and dilemmas over a bottle of Gallo rotgut on her deck. She was more of a surrogate mother for me, teaching me how to soar rather than hide. For a time, we were both turned on to Dylan Thomas.
For a birthday gift, she typed up his "Poem in October," on a sheet of parchment, changing the first line. It was rolled up, tied with a bright, red ribbon, and presented to me on my 27th birthday. Now, there was a woman who knew how to give a gift.
Years later, I started this poem of a momentous year in my life with another paraphrase of that first line. Poor Mr. Thomas is undoubtedly whirling in his grave.
Birthday
“Tis my forty-seventh year to heaven...”
wind breathes across the autumn hills
to kiss sage flowers in its path
Abby spooks at long-dried mule-ear daisies
that clatter across the meadow
steps, reluctantly, along rocky pathways
that lead further away from her stall.
I urge her onward, ever onward
when we explore an unknown trail
the dog zigzags before us
flushing out chickadees from bushes
and keeping cougars at bay.
Holly waves to us as she lopes past
heading off some troubled riders
her mare high-steps ahead of us to show off.
Sun is bright but merciful
it’s chosen not to make us miserable with its caprice
on this day that abuts the equinox
this sacred day when I mark my passing years
delight in dilemmas passed and victories won
count my loved ones as treasures amassed
and urge myself onward,
ever onward,
toward another unexplored trail.
Birthday is a poem from my book, "When the Horses Come and Go," available as a Kindle download from Amazon. I don't know where I put that last box of hard copies of the book, or I'd be thrilled to send you a signed copy. Sorry!
If you enjoyed this piece, feel free to check out more on Ring Around the Basin in the Archives.
🥳